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mencantaleer · 22 days ago

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BULLSEYE.

It just so happens that your mission with Tangerine is to take down Sergei Kravinoff (NSFW).

w/c: 1.8k a/n: Just a quick thing I've had in the drafts for a min lol. They work pretty well together ;)

“Excuse me, Miss. Reception’s requested that you see to them immediately.”

Unamused, you instinctively opened your mouth to protest the waiter before closing it abruptly, opting for a subtle eye roll. The waiter wasn’t a waiter at all, instead your assignment partner Tangerine, who wore a smirk as smug as ever.

Sighing, you politely turned to the man you were dining with – the target, to be exact – a well-spoken, slightly rugged but neatly dressed man by the name of Sergei Kravinoff, who just so happened to be a vigilante. On the surface it seemed like quite the predicament but was rather common in the world of assassins.

Sergei waved a hand, letting you go rather cooly as you scooted out of the booth; Tangerine’s icy blue eyes burning holes into the back of your head. Once you’d made it up to the private room, he let you have it.

“You know, Lemon – the poor sod – is writhing in bed with a bloody fever, and you’re pushing some hundred-dollar gourmet shit around a plate. What the fuck happened to the plan?” he exclaimed, his lips pursed, and hands planted solidly on his hips.

“There is no plan, Tangerine,” you huffed. “You should’ve stayed with him. This was my mission, I had it under control!”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me. It looked well different from where I was standing.”

You knew what he was implying.

“How is this any different from what you’ve done? I’ve seen you flirt on the job.” “Means to an end,” he said bluntly, with a shrug. “I usually get the job done after an hour.”

“So, I was supposed to put a bullet in him right in the middle of a crowded restaurant?”

“I would’ve spiked his drink, but I’m not one to doubt your skills, love.”

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose before flopping onto the bed. Tangerine, who looked as dandy as ever, seemed a little worse for wear. In the short amount of time since you'd entered the room, he'd unbuttoned his collar and rolled up his sleeves – not to mention his fingers itching for a cigarette. Usually, you didn’t like to stress your fellow assassin, but Tangerine was well known for being a hot head.

It wasn’t as if you’d asked him to show up anyway.

“Those wouldn’t have worked,” you continued, looking at the British man earnestly. “I’m telling you, he’s different.”

“Oh really? How’d you know that then?”

You shifted, subtly adjusting the hem of your clothes. Moments passed before you spoke, only planting a feeling that Tangerine was all too unfamiliar with – he was uncomfortable. Unbearably so.

“We shared a sleeper train a few years back...It was my first day on the job --”

“Alright, I think I’ve heard enough -” the man said abruptly, sniffing and rubbing his nose. He was looking down at you inexplicably, as if he were disappointed, and a part of you felt awful about it.

It hadn’t really been evident until now, but Tangerine had started to gain feelings for you, having grown closer over every mission. You hadn’t replaced Lemon – no one would – but you filled a different hole that no one had in a while. The nature of the job was lonely, and it was nice to have a constant, even if you tended to dip in and out of their lives.

Knock, knock.

Strong knuckles collided with the hard wood. You buried your face in your hands as Tangerine glanced at you, composing himself before cocking his gun, holding it up beside him as he stared down the peephole.

“It’s that arsehole.”

“You know I can hear you, right?” The voice said, its American accent clear as day.

You snorted, giving the Brit a pointed look as you swept past him, opening the door. As expected, it was Sergei, who strolled into the room with a demeanour that rivalled Tangerine’s. Glaring, Tangerine wiped his moustache, lowering his gun but keeping his hand on the trigger.

It was silent for a moment, until Sergei’s brown eyes locked with your own.

“Good to see you again,” he grinned, nodding at you. “Didn’t think you’d leave me for a waiter.”

“We were just finishing up,” Tangerine interjected, stepping between you. “I think it’s time for you to go, alright fella?”

“Relax, my father owns the place. I know you don’t really work here,” The American replied smugly.

Tangerine winced.

“Fine,” he huffed. “I guess the charade is up.”

It wasn’t long before he fired his gun, aiming it towards Sergei’s face, despite your protests. To his dismay, the man moved quick - certainly faster than any human should’ve been able to – scaling the walls with ease to disarm the famed assassin, knocking him to the ground.

Tangerine shook his head, wiping the adrenaline from his body. His usually perfectly styled locks were now unruly, and if he hadn’t smoothed his hair back you wouldn’t have seen the fury in his eyes.

“You didn’t tell him?”

“I was getting to that part…” you murmured, watching as the man got to his feet.

Sergei cleared his throat.

“I apologise that we got off on the wrong foot,” he began, outstretching a hand. “The names Sergei. So-called vigilante with the strength of a lion.”

“Fucking unreal.”

He brushed the comment off.

“Your partner and I have a history. We were well acquainted.”

“It was a long time ago, really —“you stammered, nervously glancing between the two men. Other than each-others brutality, it was very much a turn on at the idea that they were fighting over you. They were so similar, yet utterly different.

“Not long enough. You were having dinner with him.”

“It was a catch up between old friends,” the man interjected. “You don’t think I know what she does for a living? She wouldn’t have reached out otherwise. She hasn’t in years.”

You swallowed. Was that wrong? You didn’t feel like you owed him anything – it was all a brief fling. At the end of the day you would’ve have done the job. You were one of the only people who could’ve been his weakness.

“Well, that makes me feel better then, don’t it?” Tangerine said sarcastically. “We’ve got a couple million or so on the line, so how’s this gonna end?”

“I could get you that million myself. You don’t need to kill me to do it.”

“What if I want to, eh?” The Brit sneered.

“I’m sure she doesn’t want that,” Sergei said cooly, nodding to you, and you suddenly felt the temperature rise as they locked their gaze on you, staring into your soul…but mainly undressing you with their eyes.

“Isn’t that why we’re here?”

It turned out that the solution to Tangerines ‘problem’ was solved when Sergei kissed you, one arm planted firmly around your waist as he lowered you to the edge of the bed. Tangerine shifted his weight, seemingly hesitant as he slumped his shoulders, watching like a hawk from the distance.

He’d read about this kind of thing, in his old literature books of course.

Sergei wasted no time in snaking a hand down your clothes, pawing at your breasts as he took them out, placing them on display for Tangerine to see.

“You should probably get in on this,” he shrugged. “Might fix your image, seeing as I knocked you to the floor and all…”

“Sergei —“

“Don’t bother, love,” Tangerine said, stripping off his blazer. “I’ll show you why that bastard is old news.”

The bearded man grinned in amusement at the challenge; eyes locked on the way you took the Brit’s face in your hands before your lips met. Your kiss with Tangerine was so different; gentler, more longing, compared to Sergei’s which was out of pure passion. You were hungry for them, as were they, but there was a delayed gratification to Tangerine’s lust.

It wasn’t long before your clothes were shed, leaving you totally exposed as your nipples hardened under the air conditioning.

The moustached man had made his way down between your legs, fingers pumping in and out of your wet pussy as you coated the rings on his finger. His cheeks were flush, eyes darting between your sex and your open mouth, where Sergei was unbuckling his trousers.

“Fuck, Tan…” you whispered. “I-It’s so good…”

“I’m flattered, love, but I’ve barely touched you,” he grinned, corners of his eyes crinkling up as he did. It was at that moment that Sergei took his cock out, giving it a few languid strokes before he guided you towards his genitals, throwing his head back in relief at the sensation.

He was as thick and heavy as you remembered, leaving you adjust your neck and mouth as you moved along his shaft, working your hand in tandem.

“You’ve got us wrapped around your finger, полевой цветок (wildflower),” the Russian remarked amidst a moan. “Gorgeous.”

It was heaven as Tangerine spread your thighs with his hands, diving head first into your pussy with his tongue. His groomed moustache tickled your clit as he lapped at your folds, his eye contact unwavering as he did. Not only did he want to see what he was doing to you, but he wanted to show Sergei that he could make you feel better than he ever would.

Sergei’s grip on your cheek was firm, but not rough, holding you in place as he bobbed you up and down his cock, trails of spit coating his dick in a shiny sheen.

You moaned their names between the heat of passion; mind foggy and a swelling in your core as you tan your fingers through Tangerine’s brown roots, gripping his hair as you bucked your hips against his face.

“Eager, are we love?” He said, voice rumbling into your sex. “If I’d known you wanted me this bad, I’d have made my move on that trip in Nice.”

You whined, momentarily pulling away from the man’s cock to catch your breath. In response, his hand snaked down towards your tits, giving them another squeeze before he reentered you, fucking your mouth at a steady pace.

Your eyes were watering now. Tangerine had started to use his hands, one holding your outer lips open whilst the other held down on your lower stomach, your core pulsing as he did. Both men were skilled, and they were working their best to get you off whilst not-so subtly trying to one up the other.

Nearing your orgasm, you were about to come when Tangerine abruptly pulled away, causing you to look up at him in shock.

“What’s the problem?” Sergei teased. “Can’t handle the heat?”

“Don’t you worry your little Yankee brain about me,” he replied. Once he stood to his feet you could see the visible bulge that had grown in his slacks. It was unlikely he’d be bigger than Sergei…but he’d certainly know how to use it. Maybe even better than him.

Popping his cock through the zipper, he gave his shaft – shades of a healthy pink and wanting – a quick tug and nodding towards your exposed sex.

“D’ya mind sitting out on this one, mate? I’m sure she can take care of you after. That is, if she ain’t too tired, if you know what I mean…”

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mencantaleer · 23 days ago

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˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 6643

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter Three | Previous Chapter

Kern sits across the table, he doesn’t smile this time. No clipboard. No pleasantries. Just the click of the door locking behind you and his stare — unblinking, unreadable.

It makes your skin crawl.

“I’ve watched the tape from the recent session,” he says calmly. Almost bored.

You say nothing and Kern leans forward, folding his hands on the table. “You were making such good progress,” he continues. “You were calm, cooperative. Focused on the mission.” His head shakes in half amusement, half mockery.

“I still am,” you say, voice even.

He hums. “Funny. Doesn’t look like it.”

Your throat tightens.

“You flinch when he does,” Kern adds. “You speak softly. You… pause. Let him speak first. Let him lead.”

He leans in farther, and the tension coils tighter.

“You’ve forgotten your place.”

Your nails dig into your palms.

Kern tilts his head, voice colder now. “You still think because he looks at you differently, he’s yours? You think a weapon like that can be tamed?”

You don’t answer.

“You’re becoming a problem,” he says flatly. “And you know what we do with problems.”

Your stomach turns, but you hold your ground. “Then why am I here?”

“Because you’ve made bigger progress than others who tried. Because I want to give you a chance to fix it,” he says. “To remind you what this is. You’re not a savior. You’re bait.”

He lets that word hang.

“You think he wants you?” Kern says, his voice quieter, meaner. “He wants the comfort you offer. The peace. But that’s not real. You’re not real to him. You’re just the calm before the trigger pulls.”

Your breath comes shallow.

“You think I don’t see what’s happening?” Kern’s voice sharpens. “The way he looks at you. The way you look at him. Like he’s something more.”

He sits back, smiling now — but it’s nothing kind.

“Let me be clear,” he says. “If I sense one more lapse in control, one more slip of judgment, I’ll have him reprogrammed until there’s nothing left to look at. And you? You’ll go back to solitary. No more sessions. No more connection. No more him.”

Silence chokes the room.

Kern stands. “Get your head on straight. Because the next time I call you in, I expect results. Not feelings.”

He walks toward the door. But before he leaves, he glances back — and this time, his voice is almost gentle.

“I warned you not to get attached.”

The door slams shut.

Interview over.

———

You step in. Your body moves with that same soldier-smooth precision they trained into you — quiet, efficient, unremarkable.

Your boots don’t echo. Your breathing doesn’t falter. You keep your gaze straight ahead, like you practiced all night behind the cold hum of your cell door.

Like Kern told you to.

So you do what he said.

You don’t pause at the threshold like you usually do. You don’t wait for the Winter Soldier’s eyes to find yours. You don’t feel for the invisible pull that always seems to stretch between you — taut and charged, like a wire strung between two live bodies.

You pretend it isn’t there.

You sit down.

Straight-backed. Hands in your lap. Composed.

You fold yourself into the kind of calm they like to see — the one that makes you forget your name. The one that makes you forget his.

But he notices.

The second you stepped in, his head lifted. Not sharply — slowly, almost cautiously, like he thought it might hurt. And now he’s watching you — not with suspicion. Not with coldness.

With something worse.

Worry.

You haven’t seen that in him before. Not like this.

“What’s wrong?” he ask after a moment. His voice is low, gravel-edged. A sound that used to make you feel safe.

You don’t answer, then — flatly, “We should begin.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. The silence stretches long enough that you almost look up — almost.

“You don’t sound like you,” he murmurs finally.

You ignore the way your stomach twists. “I’m fine.”

His eyes sharpen. “Did they hurt you again?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Your spine stiffens. You force your tone steady. “I’m not.”

But you flinched. He saw it. He shifts in the chair. The metal cuffs bite faintly against his wrists. His metal fingers twitch.

“You won’t look at me,” he says.

Your throat constricts. “That’s not relevant.”

His head tilts slightly. “Is that what they told you to say?”

A beat of stillness. Then you nod.

Barely. Just once.

And his expression crumples — not all at once, but piece by piece. Like he’s trying to hold something fragile together and watching it fall apart in his hands.

“What did they do to you?” he asks again. Softer, now. Like the question hurts him.

“Nothing.”

“Then what did they do to us?”

You suck in a breath. It catches.

“I’m following orders,” you whisper.

“Whose?”

You hesitate. And that’s the answer.

The silence that follows is cold. Hollow.

“I thought I lost you,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “After what I did. I thought I wouldn’t see you again. That I’d… ruined it… And you assured me I won’t lose you.”

You look down at your hands — white-knuckled in your lap. You’ve been gripping your own fingers so hard they’ve gone numb.

“I am here,” you murmur.

“Then look at me.”

Your chest aches.

You want to. God, you want to.

But you know what Kern said. What he threatened. That if they think you’ve grown too close — if they sense attachment — they’ll remove you. Or worse, remove him.

You speak slowly. Carefully. Like each word is a fragile thing. “I have to protect you.”

A pause. The chains rattle as he shifts again.

“From what?”

You lift your gaze — only for a heartbeat — and it’s enough. The pain in his expression cuts deep.

“From them,” you breathe. “If they think I’m too close — if they know how much I care — they’ll take you from me.”

He shakes his head. A faint, disbelieving sound escapes his throat. “I don’t care what they think.”

“You should,” you snap, more desperate than angry. “Because if I slip up again, they’ll lock you away, or worse — wipe you clean.” You can barely keep your voice steady. “And then you won’t remember anything. Not this. Not me.”

His hands flex in the cuffs.

“You can’t—… You can’t say that. You can’t walk through the door and pretend nothing ever happened. You can’t pretend you’re not mine.”

Your breath breaks in your throat. That word — mine — shouldn’t hit like that. But it does. Because it’s not possession, not control.

It’s longing.

It’s grief again.

It’s him, wishing he still had a right to you.

You look up — fully this time. Your mask slips.

“It’s not like that,” you whisper. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“By pretending I don’t matter?” His voice cracks. “By shutting me out?”

“I thought if I acted normal — if I followed their rules — they wouldn’t see how much I—”

You cut off.

His jaw clenches. His shoulders tense, and for a moment, you think he might pull back.

But he doesn’t.

He leans forward instead — slow, careful, like he’s afraid he might break you.

You don’t move.

“You’re the only thing I remember,” he says. “The only thing that feels real. And if you go away, if you start pretending like it didn’t mean anything — then I’ll forget it meant something too.”

His words hang in the air like smoke — choking, impossible to ignore.

You sit frozen, heart hammering in your chest, your hands still folded in your lap even as everything inside you screams to reach for him. To break the space between you. To tell him he’s not imagining this.

That it’s real.

That you are.

“Please,” he says. Soft. Cracked.

Your breath stills.

“Please, little dove. Don’t do this to me.”

Your heart lurches. That name — it’s not just a comfort anymore. It’s an anchor. A reminder of every time he watched you walk through that door and remembered something human inside himself.

His eyes — steel blue, full of ache — don’t leave yours now. They’re pleading. Raw. He looks like he’s on the edge of something, like the chains on his wrists are the only things keeping him from falling apart.

He slowly moves. His fingers shift in their cuffs. The chains rattle softly as he lifts his flesh hand from where it rests in his lap. You don’t breathe. You can’t.

He hesitates, halfway there.

And then he touches you.

His fingers brush the back of your hand. Light. Careful. As if he’s not sure he’s allowed. As if he’s afraid you’ll flinch again.

But you don’t.

Because it’s him.

His thumb traces the edge of your knuckles — gentle, reverent. He looks down at the contact like it’s hurting him, or healing him. Maybe both.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he says, voice rough. “But I know what it feels like when you’re near. And I know what it feels like when you’re not.”

You blink hard, tears burning behind your eyes. You try to speak, but the words don’t come.

So instead — you turn your hand over.

You give it to him.

You let your palm meet his, your fingers curling just slightly to hold the shape of his grip. And he exhales — like he’s been underwater this whole time, and just now broke the surface.

“When you walked in here today like this… I thought I broke you,” he whispers. “That I’d lost you.”

“You didn’t,” you say, voice hoarse. “You never could.”

His eyes close for a second, as if the weight of that truth is too much to carry.

But he keeps holding your hand.

Like he finally believes it’s his to hold.

His hand is wrapped around yours. Not tightly — no. Carefully. Like you’re fragile. Like he’s terrified you might break again, and this time, he won’t know how to fix you.

The silence stretches, but not the kind that hurts. This one feels… suspended. Like a held breath. A waiting.

And maybe it’s time to stop waiting.

Your other hand trembles in your lap. You try to keep it still, try to keep yourself still, but everything inside you is starting to shake — and this time, you don’t swallow it down. You don’t push it away.

You let it rise.

Your voice, when it comes, is thin and trembling. “I’m scared,” you whisper.

His gaze snaps to yours. Alarmed. Hurt.

“Did I—?”

“No,” you breathe, squeezing his hand before he can pull away. “Not of you. Never of you.” You give him a weak, sad smile.

His lips part like he wants to speak, but no words come out.

Your throat tightens.

His thumb brushes over the back of your hand again. A tiny gesture. But it cuts through everything.

You blink rapidly, jaw clenching as the sting builds behind your eyes. You’ve held it in for so long — held yourself in for so long — but now, his touch, his eyes, the way he says please like you’re the one who could ruin him.

It undoes you.

Your breath shudders. And then the first tear falls. Not violently. Just… quietly. Like it’s been waiting for permission.

His gaze sharpens instantly.

“Little dove…” he breathes. His voice is low, frayed.

But you shake your head. Not to stop him. To stop yourself — from falling too fast, from reaching too far. Your shoulders tremble.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper. “I can’t pretend it’s not real.”

He goes still. Like he’s afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

You lift your eyes to meet his.

“I’ve been trying to stay… controlled. Safe. Distant. Like it’s just a mission. Just a job. Just survival.” Your voice breaks. “But I come in here, and you look at me like I matter. You see me — and I don’t know how to live without that anymore.”

His fingers curl slightly against your skin.

“I don’t even know what I’m saying,” you laugh, bitter and wet, wiping at your face. “I’m not sure what I feel, I just—when I see you—” You press your lips together, shaking your head. “I feel like I have a name. Like I exist again.”

You’re sobbing now — quietly, not messy. Just open. Raw. Finally letting it out.

He watches you like it hurts him. Like every tear slices across his chest.

And then he moves.

His hand leaves yours — and for a second, you think maybe he’s pulling away. Maybe you said too much—

But he reaches for your face with his other hand. The metal is cool against your skin, but steady. Tender. His thumb brushes along your jaw. He cups you like he’s holding something sacred.

You still. The world stills.

Then he leans forward.

His forehead touches yours — slow, careful, reverent.

“I don’t know what this is either,” he says, voice almost a breath. “But I want this.”

You close your eyes.

And in that space between silence and surrender, he kisses you.

Softly.

Once.

And again.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… real.

Like he’s asking a question.

Like you’re the answer.

And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest doesn’t hurt. It belongs.

You kiss him back with so much passion and so much hunger. The world outside doesn’t exist, not in this moment. You had no idea how much you wanted this, how much you needed this.

He cups your face with both of his hands now, as If you were about to disappear the moment the kiss breaks.

And the kiss lingers on your skin long after he pulls away. His forehead stays pressed to yours, breath warm between you, the metal of his hand still cradling your jaw like you’re something delicate. Something sacred. You don’t move. You barely breathe.

His touch is slow, reverent. The way his thumb brushes under your eye — wiping away the tear he didn’t cause — feels more intimate than anything that’s come before it.

“Little dove,” he murmurs, like it’s a prayer. A lifeline.

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Let yourself feel it.

The warmth of his flesh hand and the coldness of his metal send a shiver through your spine — the contrast is so stark yet so comforting. The ache in your chest is finally quieting.

And for a heartbeat — just one — it’s like you’re not in that room.

Like you’re not a prisoner.

He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple — a touch so soft it barely registers.

And then—

BZZZT.

The intercom crackles overhead.

“Sit back.” The voice is calm. Not Kern’s.

Voss.

Every inch of your body goes still.

The Soldier stiffens instantly, like a string just snapped tight down his spine. His hand freezes against your cheek.

You don’t move. Can’t. Not yet.

“Now.” It’s still calm. That’s worse than if he’d shouted.

You pull back slowly. Controlled. Not rushed. Like it means nothing.

Like you weren’t just kissing him.

You lower your gaze, hands returning to your lap with practiced stillness. Your posture straightens. Your mask re-forms.

The Soldier doesn’t move.

“Compliance failure will result in removal.” Still even. Still quiet. But the message is clear.

Your heart stutters.

They saw.

They saw everything.

They always see.

They always watch.

And now — you’re not sure who they’ll punish.

The Soldier’s jaw clenches. His eyes don’t leave yours. But slowly — like it costs him something — he moves back. Just a bit.

“That’s better,” Voss says. Then silence. The line goes dead.

It blooms, sharp and ugly in its aftermath.

The Soldier’s breathing is heavier now. You don’t know if it’s anger. Or fear. Or both.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

The damage has been done.

———

You come back the next day. Your body remembers what it’s supposed to do — smooth, composed, controlled — but your blood doesn’t. Your blood knows. Something’s wrong. You feel it before your eyes even lift.

And then you see him.

And it rips the air from your lungs. Your eyes wide up in horror.

He’s on the floor — still restrained — but he’s slumped low, jaw bruised, lip split. There’s blood dried across one temple, matting his hair, and more smeared dark down the edge of his jaw. His ribs blooming with mottled bruises — some old, most fresh. There are wounds on his chest. Ones you haven’t seen there before.

You stop breathing.

He looks up. Slowly. Like it hurts.

But the second he sees you — the second your eyes meet — he tries to sit straighter.

He fails.

The chains rattle weakly as he sags back against the wall. His metal fingers twitch, reaching — instinctive.

Still reaching for you.

“I’m fine,” he croaks, before you can say anything.

He isn’t.

You know he isn’t.

“What did they do?” you whisper, your voice trembles, cracks.

But you already know.

Because this wasn’t about him. Not really.

It was about you.

And they knew exactly what would break you.

“They said I needed a reminder,” he says hoarsely. “About boundaries.”

Your throat tightens. You try to speak — to say something — but it catches like barbed wire.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” he says quickly. Like that’s what you’re worried about. “Not about us. Not about how I feel. I just kept thinking—” He winces. Breath hitches. “—if I stayed quiet, they wouldn’t hurt you.”

You move before you can stop yourself. You’re at his side in two steps, hands outstretched — hovering, shaking. You don’t touch him. You don’t know where to touch. He’s bleeding in too many places.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, already sobbing.

He closes his eyes. His head tips back, resting against the wall. His voice is barely a breath.

“You came back.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to ache. You blink fast — you will not cry. Not again. Not here. “I always come back,” you whisper.

His eyes open again. Clouded, pained. But soft. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t blame yourself.”

You want to scream. You want to grab him, hold him, undo every inch of what they did — but you can’t even brush your fingers against his skin without hurting him.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” you murmur. “I knew they were watching. I knew what they’d do if—”

He shakes his head. “I kissed you.”

“They punished you.”

“They always do,” he says, quietly and casually, like it’s nothing. “It’s not your fault, dove.”

You freeze and his gaze holds yours.

“I’d take it again,” he says. “The bruises. The pain. All of it. If it means I get one more second with you.”

Your heart stumbles so hard it feels like it might tear itself in half.

He’s looking at you — with one good eye and a face full of bruises — and he means it. Every word. Like it’s nothing. Like he’d suffer again just to feel your warmth for a moment longer.

And it kills you.

Because he shouldn’t feel that way. He shouldn’t have to bleed for crumbs of comfort. He shouldn’t be sitting here, broken, because you let yourself feel human for once — because you let your guard slip and you fell in love with someone who understood your pain in a way no one else could.

And he thinks it was worth it.

Your throat clenches around the sob that threatens to escape. “Don’t say that,” you whisper.

He blinks slowly. “Why not?”

“Because I shouldn’t matter that much to you. Because they used it. Because they knew it would hurt both of us. And they were right.” Your hands are shaking now. “I never wanted this. Not like this.”

He watches you — the way you hover, helpless, like you’re about to shatter. “But you do,” he says softly. “You do matter to me.”

Something in you buckles. Not your spine — not your posture — but something deeper. Something hollowed out long ago that suddenly fills with ache.

“I can’t protect you,” you say, barely audible.

He almost smiles. But it’s too tired, too pained to reach his mouth.

“You already are.”

You take a slow, shaking breath, then finally reach for him — gentle, trembling — and press your fingertips to the edge of his jaw, just where the bruising ends.

It’s not much. But it’s something.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize again, and this time your voice cracks.

He leans into your hand, eyes fluttering shut and something in you gives way.

The thing you’ve been holding back — for days, for weeks, maybe even since the moment they first locked you in with him — it slips its leash.

You move closer to him, carefully — like you’re afraid even the sound of it might hurt him. Your hands move to his sides, hovering for a second too long before you finally gather the courage to touch. Just barely. Just enough to guide yourself closer.

And then — slowly, gently — you lean forward and bury your face in his chest.

He goes completely still.

You’re careful. You don’t press against the bruises. You shift slightly when he flinches — adjusting, protecting, cradling him as if he were made of glass. But you don’t pull away. You can’t.

Because the second your head rests against him — the second you feel his warmth — you break.

The sob that leaves you is soundless, but it rips through your whole body.

Your fingers tremble as they curl against his bare sides, careful to avoid the worst of the bruises. His skin is warm beneath your touch — too warm — and you feel every shallow breath he takes, every small flinch he tries to hide. Your chest shakes as tears fall hot and fast, dripping onto his skin and smearing through the blood and sweat already there. You try to stop, but you can’t. You’re not built for this. You were never trained for this kind of pain.

You didn’t mean to fall in love with him.

But you did.

And now you’re holding his broken body like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“I love you,” you whisper, so quietly you’re not even sure you meant to say it aloud. “God, I love you.”

His breath hitches above you.

His fingers — still trembling — move with slow effort. You feel the faint brush of his metal hand as it curls weakly around your wrist. He doesn’t pull you closer. He doesn’t need to. You’re already wrapped around him like you’ll never let go again.

And maybe you won’t.

For a moment, the room disappears. The walls, the cameras, the chains — none of it exists. Just the two of you. Clinging to something that was never supposed to be yours.

———

Another day passes.

They bring you in.

The lights are too bright, humming loud in your ears. The walls look the same as always, but your powers flicker the moment you walk in. You feel it — his pain, much stronger than yesterday.

And then you see him.

Kneeling.

His arms are bound behind his back, He’s bruised. Fresh cuts trail down his ribs. He’s slumped but upright, panting like it hurts to breathe, blood dried in the corner of his mouth.

And he looks up the second you enter.

The moment your eyes meet, he knows.

You know.

Your breath stumbles.

No, you think. No.

But the speaker crackles to life, overhead. Cold. Detached.

“You want to prove you’re not compromised?” Voss’s voice. Smooth. Deadly. “Then hurt him.”

You don’t move.

“What?” you whisper.

Kern is there with Voss. He must be, you think. It’s always his ideas, his commands. His sick, twisted, fucking game he loves playing so much. He’s watching. Always watching.

“Strike him,” Voss says again, with practiced ease. “Inflict pain. Make it convincing. Or we’ll send someone else in who won’t stop at convincing. Let’s see if you can break him yourself. Since you’re the one who got him into this mess.”

Your gaze locks onto the camera.

Then slowly, to him.

And he’s already nodding.

“It’s okay,” he croaks, voice rough. “Do it. I can take it.”

That’s what undoes you.

Not the order.

Not the setup.

Not even the threat.

It’s him.

The way he offers himself up like it’s normal. Like it’s nothing. Like he’s done this before.

You step forward. Slowly. Your limbs feel like they aren’t yours. Heavy. Shaking. Your hands curl into fists at your sides as you lower yourself to your knees in front of him.

He blinks at you. There’s blood on his teeth. Confusion flickers across his face.

“It’s okay,” he says again. “I’d rather it be you.”

“No,” you whisper.

“You have to.”

“No.”

You turn toward the camera, jaw tight. Your voice doesn’t shake.

“I won’t hurt him.”

Silence.

Then a breath of static. And a slow, amused hum from Voss.

“Disappointing.”

You barely have time to turn around.

The doors behind you slam open. Heavy boots. Two guards enter — bigger, armored, not here to play pretend.

“Stop!” you shout, scrambling to your feet. “I said stop—!”

They don’t listen.

They grab your arms. Yank you back. You thrash, wild, desperate, screaming his name as they drag you across the floor.

“Don’t touch him—please, don’t—!”

He lifts his head as they pull you away. You see it — just for a moment — his face, broken, bloodied, and still trying to find you through the blur.

“Little Dove—”

Then the door slams.

They don’t take you far. Just down a corridor, through a door you’ve never seen before. The walls here are darker, the air colder. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sickly hue on the metal surfaces.

You’re thrown into a chair, wrists and ankles bound with cold, unyielding restraints. The room smells of antiseptic and something more sinister — blood, sweat, fear.

Kern stands before you, clipboard in hand, eyes devoid of emotion. Voss watches from behind a glass pane, his gaze sharp and calculating.

“You disappoint me,” Kern says, his voice devoid of inflection.

You glare at him, defiance burning in your chest despite the fear coiling in your stomach.

“You had a chance to prove your loyalty,” he continues. “Instead, you chose weakness.”

He nods to someone behind you. A figure steps forward, face obscured, holding a tray of instruments that gleam ominously under the harsh lights.

The first cut is shallow, a mere scratch across your forearm. But it’s enough to make you flinch, to draw blood. The pain is sharp, immediate.

“This is just the beginning,” Kern says, watching you closely.

The next cut is deeper, slicing through muscle. You bite back a scream, refusing to give them the satisfaction. Blood drips onto the floor, pooling beneath your chair.

They continue, methodically inflicting pain, each wound calculated to cause maximum agony without causing death. Your vision blurs, sweat mingling with tears as your body trembles.

“Still silent?” Kern asks, raising an eyebrow. “Impressive.” He leans in close, his breath cold against your ear. “But everyone breaks eventually.”

The torment continues, each moment stretching into eternity. Your mind begins to fracture, pain overwhelming every thought. But through it all, you hold onto one thing — him. His face, his voice, his unwavering belief in you.

You won’t give them the satisfaction. You won’t let them win.

———

You don’t know how long it’s been.

Time blurs when you bleed this much.

The room is still — quiet now. The torturer’s gone. The instruments have been cleaned. You’re left hanging, slumped from your restraints, blood drying sticky down your sides. Your shoulders scream. Your legs are shaking. But you don’t make a sound. You won’t give them that.

Then the door opens again with the familiar sound of boots.

You don’t lift your head, but you already know it’s him.

Kern.

He doesn’t speak right away. You hear the slow flip of a folder. The click of a pen. Like he’s reading over notes before a meeting.

You force yourself to breathe.

To stay awake.

“I have to admit,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and even. “I expected more from you.”

Your jaw clenches.

“You had so much potential,” he continues, stepping closer. “All that power. All that pain. You could have been unstoppable.”

You finally lift your head. Slowly. Your vision doubles. One of your eyes is nearly swollen shut.

He smiles faintly.

“And then you got soft. Love makes you weak.”

You say nothing.

“You started caring,” he says. “You let him in. You started feeling things. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

Your voice comes out broken. Dry.

“You mean for you?”

“For everyone,” Kern replies smoothly. “But mostly for you.”

He leans in, just enough for you to see the glint in his eye. “He’s going to die because of you.”

Your breath catches. Kern sees it.

“That’s the part that kills you, isn’t it? Not the pain. Not the beatings. Not even what we just did to you.” His voice lowers. “It’s knowing that he’s the one who’s going to suffer next. Because of what you feel.”

Your body tenses, but you’re too weak to move.

“Every second you let yourself get attached,” he murmurs, “you carved the knife deeper into him. He’s broken because you didn’t do your job. He’s bleeding because you couldn’t follow orders.”

Tears sting behind your eyes.

But you won’t let them fall.

You won’t.

“Say it,” he says softly. “Say you understand what you’ve done.”

You look at him.

And somehow, through the haze, you still find it in yourself to spit. The blood hits his shoe.

Kern stills.

Then laughs, cold and quiet.

“I’ll give you credit,” he says, stepping back. “You’ve got fire.”

He walks to the door.

“But fire only lasts so long when there’s nothing left to burn.”

He glances back one more time.

“Rest up. You’ll need it. Next time, he’ll be watching.”

Then the door shuts.

And you’re left in silence.

Hanging by your wrists. Blood drying down your legs. Muscles trembling with pain.

But you don’t break.

Not yet.

Because even now — even ruined — you’re still his Little Dove.

And you won’t let them clip your wings.

———

They throw you back into your cell like you’re trash.

Your body hits the concrete hard, a sick thud followed by the rasp of the metal door slamming shut behind you. The sound echoes, then disappears into silence.

You don’t move.

Blood pools slowly beneath your cheek. Your body is a raw, pulsing thing — ribs cracked, wrists torn open where the restraints dug deep, skin burning where they cut, peeled, pressed. Your mouth tastes like rust and ash. Every breath is a jagged edge.

You couldn’t scream by the end. There wasn’t enough left.

And now — now there’s just the cold, the blood, and Kern’s voice still whispering inside your skull.

“He’s the one who’s going to suffer next. Because of what you feel.”

You try to push it away.

You try.

But it plays again, anyway.

“He’s going to die because of you.”

You want to scream — not from pain, not even from fear — but from fury. From shame. Because you know what he meant. Because you saw the way they looked at you when he bled for you. Because you saw him kneel and still offer himself just to keep you safe.

You curl into yourself.

You don’t cry. You can’t. There’s nothing left to give. Just the quiet drip of blood from your nose, the sting of your own heartbeat against split skin, and the knowledge that this — all of this — started the moment you let yourself feel something.

“Love makes you weak.”

No. No, it doesn’t.

But here, in this silence, on this cold floor… it’s so hard to remember that.

———

They left him on the floor. Just cold concrete beneath his ribs and the weight of dried blood caked in every seam of his skin. He hasn’t moved in hours. Can’t. His body doesn’t listen, not really. Everything aches. His shoulder’s out of socket again. Jaw split at the hinge.

But worse than the pain is the silence.

You’re not here. And he doesn’t know what they’re doing to you.

The door creaks open. No alarms. No guards this time. Just footsteps.

“Soldier,” Kern says, voice like ice poured down the spine.

A chill creeps under his skin. He flinches before he can stop it — barely a twitch, but Kern catches it. He always does.

“Still in one piece, I see,” Kern murmurs. “How resilient.”

The Soldier’s breathing tightens. Shallow and fast. His pulse scrapes in his ears.

Kern’s boots stop just beside his face. Close enough to step on him if he wanted to.

And for a second, it feels like he might.

The Soldier shifts — slow, broken — trying to push himself up onto one elbow, but his arm gives out. He crashes back down with a low grunt, breath shuddering. His eyes stay on the floor. He doesn’t even try to use his metal arm.

Kern crouches beside him. “Funny,” he says. “I thought you’d be relieved she wasn’t here. After all, you’ve done quite enough damage to her already.”

Silence.

Blood drips from the Soldier’s split lip.

“I saw her,” Kern continues, softly now. “After we pulled her out. Do you know what she said before she blacked out? She asked if you were still breathing. Not for herself. Not for freedom. Not even for mercy. Just you.”

He doesn’t respond.

He can’t.

Fear crawls up his throat, dry and clinging. He tries to swallow, but it sticks.

Kern leans closer. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” he whispers. “You care.”

The Soldier’s eyes flick up — just for a second — and Kern smiles.

“There it is,” Kern says. “That look. That flicker of something trying so hard to be human. Tell me, do you know what we do with broken weapons around here?”

A beat.

Then he says it. Quiet. Deliberate. “We reset them.”

The Soldier’s stomach turns. His breath catches.

No.

“I think it’s time we reminded you what you are,” Kern murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. “No more distractions. No more softness. We scrub the slate clean.”

He leans in even closer — like a lover, like a ghost — and breathes the next words right against his ear: “Would you like to forget her?”

The Soldier recoils. He actually tries to move — muscles spasming, panic jolting through his limbs like an electric shock. The restraints on his wrists bite in harder.

Kern stands. “You won’t remember her name. Her voice. The way she looked at you. All of it… gone. Just another crack sealed shut.”

He turns to leave.

“But don’t worry,” he adds, stepping over him like he’s nothing, “we’ll keep her alive. So you can hurt her again. Just like the first time.”

The door hisses open.

The Soldier lurches forward, gasping.

“Please—”

But Kern is already gone.

And the light flickers overhead. His face is still pressed to the floor, breath torn ragged from his chest, shaking with a fear deeper than pain.

Because death would be mercy.

Forgetting you?

That would be worse.

That would be the end.

———

The surveillance room hums low with static and fluorescent buzz. The screen in front of them flickers slightly — just enough to suggest interference, though neither man seems to mind.

Kern stands with arms crossed, posture crisp, almost elegant in his stiffness. Voss sits, as always, legs spread in a relaxed sprawl, suit jacket open, a finger tapping absently against the console.

Soldier is barely visible in the monitor’s grainy grayscale. Curled on the concrete, motionless. The bruises on his side have started to bloom purple-black.

“You saw her reaction,” Kern says calmly. “She cracked.”

“She didn’t hit him,” Voss points out.

“No,” Kern agrees. “But she disobeyed. That’s more valuable.”

Voss turns his head, slow and amused. “You enjoy this too much.”

“And you don’t enjoy it enough,” Kern replies, barely a smile. “We’re past the phase of brute compliance. If we want them to turn on each other, we need her to break where it matters. Not with screaming. With silence.”

Voss’s fingers stop tapping.

“You think she’ll still protect him after this?”

“She thinks she’s protecting him now,” Kern answers. “Guilt is a powerful motivator. And he—” His eyes flick to the screen. “—he’d rather die than let her suffer. We use that.”

“Until?”

“Until she begs us to erase him.”

Voss lets out a low whistle. “Cold.”

“She won’t mean it,” Kern says, unfazed. “But she’ll say it. That’s all we need.”

He pauses, tilting his head toward the monitor.

“You take something precious. Twist it. Make her believe he’s better off gone. That she’s the one keeping him in pain. Eventually, she’ll beg us to wipe him clean. To put him out of his misery.”

Voss hums. “And when she does?”

“Then she’ll never forgive herself,” Kern says quietly.

They both look at the screen again.

The Soldier hasn’t moved.

“Should I schedule another wipe?” Voss asks.

Kern’s lips twitch, not quite a smile. “No. Not yet. Let him remember. Let him rot in the fear of it.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes sharp as blades.

“Fear is the thread we pull.”

———

You’re back in the chair again. No restraints this time, but you know better than to think you’re free. The walls are smooth. Clinical. There’s no sound except the quiet hum of the overhead lights. Across from you, Kern sits with his fingers laced, calm as ever. No clipboard. No notes. Just watching.

He waits a moment before he speaks. Just long enough to let the silence crawl under your skin.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says finally.

You don’t answer.

His head tilts. “Not like last time. Not like the screaming.”

Your jaw tightens.

“I thought we made progress,” he muses. “But maybe I was wrong. Maybe you need another reminder of what’s at stake.”

Still, you say nothing.

Kern leans back slightly in his chair. “You know what I think?” He smiles — just a faint tug at the corner of his mouth. “I think you still believe there’s a version of this where you both survive. Where you get to keep him.”

Your hands curl into fists in your lap.

“But there isn’t,” he continues. “Not really. You were never meant to get attached. And he… he was never meant to feel anything.”

He pauses.

“But he does. And you do. And that… complicates things.”

You look up, finally. Meet his eyes.

“You did this,” you say quietly. “You made us like this.”

Kern smiles wider. “And now I get to unmake you.”

He stands. Walks slowly to your side — not touching, not even looming. Just circling.

“You’ll let him go eventually. I know you will. You’re too smart to die for someone so broken. You’ll fold. You’ll cry. And then you’ll beg us to end it.”

He stops behind you. His voice lowers.

“I hope you are aware that you are in control now. I’ll let you do the honors.”

Silence.

Then he leans in, just enough for you to feel his breath on your neck.

“We can wipe him. Make him forget you… or… He can suffer, of course. You both can. We’ll continue the tortures, the pain,” he whispers. “Maybe he’ll die in the process.”

He lets that hang in the air.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

And then, like nothing happened at all, he straightens and turns to leave the room.

“Until next time, 009.”

Interview over.

fuck kern we all say in unison!

Chapter four soon! 🕊️

tags (tysm for love and support): @tfamidoingwithmylife @stell404 @shakysif @unicornqueen05 @carolinianmermaid @zoroforlife @beforemdnight @nicksolemnlyswears

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mencantaleer · 27 days ago

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The Arrangement Masterlist

Summary: Jake's done a lot of things to keep his sister, and then his niece, safe from his parent's influence and manipulation. If he wants to keep them safe, he has to marry you.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Asks:

Jake's Cooking Skills

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mencantaleer · 28 days ago

Text

shall I? SHALL. I.

4K notes · View notes

mencantaleer · 28 days ago

Text

All my reader!characters are female and have she/her pronouns. However, I try to keep everything else as inclusive as possible. Meaning: they can be read as every ethnicity/race, body type, etc.

Before you request: Rules&Preferences

Looking for some fun shorter concepts?

☞ 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 (drabbles/headcacons)

-> fics are sorted newest to oldest in each category

-> more detailed summaries can be found on the link of each fic

⌜last updated: November 2024⌟

✒︎ Challenges

3k Pick-A-Path (story) (in progress)

In which you have the choice of what happens next on your journey.

1k Writing Bingo (masterlist) (completed)

In which you’ll find a collection of one-shots and drabbles that were requested during my Bingo Game.

✮ Steve Rogers

𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

Watchful Eyes ☁︎ ✦ ❤︎

CEO!SteveRogers x Maid!Female!Reader AU

In which Steve is obsessed with his new maid.

Forever, of Course. ❤︎

In which Steve gets to fake marry Y/N.

Revision ❤︎ ✦

Professor!SteveRogers x Student!Female!Reader AU

In which Steve asks you to stay after class for a little bit of... essay revision.

All the Words I Can't Say ❤︎ ❁

College!SteveRogers x Female!Reader AU

In which Y/N catches Steve painting a portrait of her.

Flooded ☁︎ ❤︎ ❁

In which Steve discovers Y/N‘s biggest secret.

Heroes ❤︎

In which Y/N is Steve's safe haven.

Talk ☁︎ ❤︎ ✦

In which Steve and Y/N’s frustrations build up to an argument that could have been avoided if they would have just talked to each other.

Bullies ☁︎ ❤︎

In which Steve comforts Y/N after she gets a flashback from her former High School Years.

Headline Events ❤︎ ☁︎ ❁

CollegeJournalist!SteveRogers x Athlete!reader AU

In which Steve is just adorkably obsessed with Y/N; the most beautiful member of his college's swimming team.

𝐓𝐖𝐎-𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

If Given the Chance… // Give Me a Chance ☁︎ ❤︎

In which Steve and Bucky accidentally switch bodies.

✪ Bucky Barnes

𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

A degree? Who needs that anyway? ☁︎ ❤︎

Boyfriend!Bucky x Female!Reader

In which Bucky tries everything to make you feel less stressed.

Celeste ☁︎ ✦ ❤︎

FallenAngel!BuckyBarnes x Female!Reader AU

In which Bucky is banished for falling in love with you.

Remeber Me ☁︎ ❤︎

In which Y/N discovers Bucky, her lover from the 40s, is still alive.

Bad Boys Don't Buy Flowers ☁︎ ❤︎ ✦

CEO!BuckBarnes x Female!Florist!Reader AU

In which Bucky falls for the one woman who doesn't seem to reciprocate his feelings.

Refuge - a small town crime/love story ❤︎ ✦ ☁︎ ❁

BuckyBarnes/WinterSoldier x Detective!Female!Reader AU

In which Y/N provides shelter for Bucky while unawares being on the hunt for the same.

Happy Little Accidents ☁︎ ❤︎

Veteran!BuckyBarnes x Female!ArtTeacher!Reader

In which Bucky joins your art workshop in the 21st century.

The Karens of the World ☁︎ ❤︎ ❁

BuckyBarnes x Female!Reader MODERN AU

In which Y/N asks Bucky to pose as her boyfriend at her aunt's Independence Day party.

Hopelessly Devoted ❤︎

In which Bucky and Y/N reminisce about the first time they met.

Serious Questions ❤︎ ❁

In which Bucky agrees to go on a date to make his friends shut up.

Some Other Guy ☁︎ ❤︎

In which Bucky's curiosity leads to a heartbreaking miscommunication.

Rest and Recover ❤︎ ❁

Prince!Bucky x Princess!Reader AU

In which Y/N is sick and Bucky visits to comfort her.

Like Bonnie and Clyde ✦ ❤︎

In which Bucky and Y/N are the hot criminal couple on the run.

Flowers and Things ❤︎ ❁

In which Bucky really wants to buy Y/N a birthday gift, because he has a crush on her.

New Slang

In which Y/N is the cliché Gen-Z Avenger that cannot shut up, and whose bold remarks lead Bucky to end up in very confusing situations.

Moonlit Fantasies ❤︎

In which Bucky and Y/N are pining for each other during a perfect bonfire night.

𝐓𝐖𝐎-𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

If Given the Chance… // Give Me a Chance ☁︎ ❤︎

In which Bucky and Steve accidentally switch bodies.

Dying Isn‘t So Scary with You // Dying Isn’t So Scary with You, Either ❤︎ ☁︎ ❁

In which Bucky and Y/N have a deep late night conversation that is put to the test.

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

Everything’s Better in Westview ☁︎ ❤︎ ✦ (completed)

In which Bucky and Y/N decide to go to Westview to live the perfect suburban life.

Save Me ☁︎ ❤︎ (completed)

College!BuckyBarnes x College!reader AU

In which Bucky is just a cocky shit that thinks nothing is worth his attention until Y/N comes along.

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

Worlds Collide ❤︎

Grumpy!BuckyBarnes x Sunshine!Female!Reader APOCALYPSE AU

In which Y/N and Bucky meet in a world far different from ours.

🕸️ Miguel O'Hara

𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

Tough Luck ☁︎ ❤︎

MiguelO'Hara x Spiderwoman!Reader

In which Miguel and Y/N are idiots in love.

✡︎ Ari Levinson

𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

Hold on to it ❤︎ ❁

In which Ari is just completely enchanted by Y/N.

♜ Sherlock Holmes

𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

If Only You Would Know ☁︎ ❤︎

HenryCavill!Sherlock x reader

In which Enola finally brings Sherlock and Y/N to confess their feelings for one another.

The Most Beautiful Riddle ❤︎

HenryCavill!Sherlock x reader

In which Sherlock finally proposes to Y/N.

Words Cannot Express ❤︎ ❁

HenryCavill!Sherlock x reader

In which Sherlock and Y/N have a forever crush on each other.

⌖ Napoleon Solo

𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

Solo

NapoleonSolo x Agent!reader

In which Napoleon does not want to work with Y/N, even though they are the 'perfect team'.

Vlog Squad

Jeff Wittek

Hater ☁︎ ❤︎ ❁

In which Y/N tries to convince herself that she does not have any feelings for Jeff and miserably fails.

Protective ☁︎ ❤︎

In which Jeff is really protective over Y/N, because he has a crush on her.

Chinese ❤︎

In which Y/N and Jeff are struggling with the feelings they have for eachother.

Not Nice ☁︎ ❤︎

In which Jeff and y/n have a heart to heart conversation about their relationship.

Toddy Smith

Summer Lovin ☁︎ ❤︎

In which Todd and Y/N meet at a club in Spain and start a summer fling.

Practice ❤︎

In which Todd offers Y/N to practice kissing with him.

David Dobrik

Drunk ☁︎ ❤︎ ❁

In which David gets drunk and hurts himself.

Pushed Away ☁︎ ❤︎

In which Y/N and David need to discuss their hidden feelings for eachother.

Assistant ☁︎ ❤︎

In which Y/N accidentally insults David which makes him instantly like her and try to win her over with a little bit of talking.

Ilya Fedorovich

Lavender ☁︎ ❁

In which Ilya gets his heart broken by Y/N.

2K notes · View notes

mencantaleer · 1 month ago

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the way i loved you materlist

18 +

summary: College student, Daniela Bianchi, has a soul destroying, life-ruining crush on Steve Rodgers. Knowing that he might never feel the same way, she in-lists the help of his best friend to make him jealous.

series warning: fratboy!bucky x f!college!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, he fell first and harder, grumpy x sunshine vibes, playboy x lover girl, love triangle kinda, “i hate him” “no you don’t” “i know”, angst, smut, slow burn.

updates every sunday!

Character Introductions

The Main Characters

Delta Omega Phi House

Kappa Zeta House

The Roommates

Chapters

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

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mencantaleer · 1 month ago

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Dangerous Notes - Part 13

Title: Dangerous Notes - Part 13

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Singer!Female Reader

Fic Summary: Reluctantly agreeing to fill in for her sick friend at a prestigious jazz club, The Armoury, Reader finds herself thrust into a world of old-world glamour and unknown danger. The club’s enigmatic owner, Bucky Barnes, has set his sights on making her a permanent fixture on his stage-and in his life.

Chapter Summary: Determined to hold your ground, you head into The Armory for Saturdy rehearsal- only to end up somewhere you should have been.

Word Count: 5.9k

Fic Warnings: // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI,Dark Romance, Slow Burn, Possessive/Obsessive behaviour, Violence, Smut (eventually), Emotional manipulation / subtle coercion, Mob activity, Chapter Warnings: Implied organized crime violence, snarly males, upset feeling

A/N: Dangerous Note is updated Thursday – On a biweekly schedule.

It had taken a while for you to come back from the edge. But eventually you did. You put the kettle back on to boil and you cleaned up the broken pieces of the mug, quietly apologizing to the ruined thing as if it, too, had been collateral damage.

You made yourself another tea you didn’t drink.

Just stood there, arms folded while it steeped too long, the steam curling around in the sunlight that came in through the window. The light was warm but fragile, painting soft shapes across the counter. You weren’t sure how long you stared at the mug. Long enough for the surface to go still. Long enough for your reflection to show in the dark swirl of liquid, distorted by movement and heat.

You weren’t going to go in today. That had been the plan. They could make do one night. Bucky could have his win. But was it even that clear cut? If you did show, he won. If you didn’t- he won then too, didn’t he? It was a lose-lose masquerading as choice.

But even now, part of you kept checking the time. Kept listening for a knock that didn’t come. Kept circling the drain of what you owed, what you feared, what you refused to give him. You walked from room to room like a ghost, unable to settle, unable to let the decision rest. Every creak in the floorboard felt like an excuse not to go, and yet you still kept half an eye on the clock.

You didn’t owe them anything. Not after the stunt with Kara. Not after Bucky’s little performance. Not after the way he’d stared right through you like he already knew how far you’d bend—like he had the map and you were just tracing the route. It wasn’t just about control. It was about performance. About showing him -and everyone else- that you wouldn’t be played like a note in one of their backroom songs.

And yet…

You were a professional.

This was still a job. One you hadn’t walked away from, not when things got hard. Not even when it might’ve been smarter to run.

Singing made you happy. It gave you back something small but essential. Breath, structure, focus.

Despite everything else going on around it. Despite the tension, the manipulation, the games. It was the one thing that still felt like yours.

Singing again was making you happy. Happier than you'd been in so long. There was clarity in it. Relief. A thread of control in a place where everything else was chaos.

And you couldn’t help the voice in your head that whispered about retaliation. About consequences. About what it meant to vanish from the roster without warning when Barnes had just reminded you how easily he could reach into other people’s lives, lives you cared about. You’d been warned without words, marked without touch. That dinner invitation wasn’t an ask. It was an expectation.

You didn’t want to see him. But you didn’t want him thinking you were scared either. And maybe worse, you didn’t want him to think you’d rolled over.

Maybe that was what this was now- one long game of emotional chicken. You didn’t know why it mattered that he didn’t think he’d rattled you.

But it did.

So you’d go in. There was supposed to be band practice anyway.

You’d run through the set list.

You’d be cool. Professional. Untouchable.

Because you weren’t going to let this place change you. Not entirely. Not yet.

“I’ll show up. I’ll sing. I won’t fold.”

Scene 2: Arrival at The Armory

You arrived for practice, purposeful and composed. Not out of fear, and not because you owed Kara anything. But because you wanted to be there. Because this was your job, and you were going to show up for it on your terms.

You entered through the side staff door, not even registering how quiet it was at first. Had it been this still last week? You couldn’t remember. Your focus was narrowed, honed to a sharp point.

It wasn’t until you stepped toward the stage that the quiet hit you. No voices. No tuning. No banter. No footsteps in the wings.

Maybe you were early. Maybe the band was just running late.

You caught sight of the others gathered by the bar, Yelena, Wanda, Pietro. No one else.

Taking a breath, you straightened your shoulders and walked out across the floor like you belonged there.

Your heels echoed sharply on the wood of the stage, louder than usual. Like a sound that didn’t want to be ignored.

The sound made Pietro’s head snap up. He was standing at the bar with Wanda and Yelena, all of them locked in a low conversation. Yelena subtly grabbed someone on the other side of the bar.

“Songbird,” Pietro also squacked as the nickanme came out surprised, tinged with a hesitancy that put you on edge. “I should’ve d'exted you- we’re not really running practice today." "Why not?" You kept moving stepping off the stage. "I figured you wouldn’t be in de mood so...” Pietro hands flailed about as you stopped putting your bag down on on the tables that weren't set up.

“I’m a professional. Of course I show up. This is still my job. Issues or not.”

Pietro laughed lightly, but it sounded off, like he wasn’t sure if it was safe to actually laugh. Wanda shifted behind him, her eyes narrowing slightly, while Yelena remained perfectly still, arms crossed, watching you like she was waiting to intercept something. The way they looked at you made your skin itch. Like they were bracing for fallout you hadn’t planned to unleash.

What was everyone’s problem today?

“You really don’t 'ave to,” Pietro tried again, voice softer now. “Come on, I’ll get you a coffee. We’ll put your stuff in the dressing room and go, since it’s just us-”

“No, we can practise. I mean, you can just text the band and tell them to come in if you want. I’m fine. You don’t have to coddle me.”

Had he really canceled practice just because you’d been... what? A little shaken last night? You’d held it together. More or less. Sure, you'd maybe unraveled behind closed doors, but that didn’t make you unreliable.

If anything, it made this morning more important.

You weren’t here to be looked after.

You were here because you chose to be. Because you wanted to feel capable again. Because walking back in through that door was your way of drawing the line.

Pietro’s eyes darted toward Yelena.

“No one’s trying to coddle you. Let’s just go 'ave a coffee, yeah? I could use the caf-”

Pietro’s sentence was cut off as loud voices burst out from behind the Staff Only door, sharp enough to make your pulse skip. It wasn’t the usual low muttering of backstage business. This was raised, clipped. Angry. Urgent in a way that made the hair on your arms rise.

Pietro flinched mid-step. Wanda's hand went flat against the bar. Yelena was already moving, eyes narrowed like she’d been waiting for this.

“Maximoff-” Yelena’s voice was sharp.

“I know,” Pietro barked back. His hand closed around your arm before you could register it.

The staff door behind the bar slammed open.

Bucky. Steve. And the man you now knew was Sam Wilson came barreling out onto the main club floor, their strides long and deliberate. The sound of their footsteps echoed over the hardwood like distant gunfire- precise, hard, and fast.

They looked lethal—faces carved in stone, postures tight with something that vibrated like restrained violence. Suits sharp, movements tighter. Their energy didn’t just fill the room- it took up space in your lungs. They were already talking over one another:

“I want eyes. Who do we have down here?” Bucky was already tucking something into the inside of his jacket- sleek and practiced, like a man used to concealment.

“Nat’s already en route.” Steve had his phone in his hand, eyes scanning. His voice clipped. “Barton’s there. Two on the roof.”

Bucky turned his head, catching movement on his left. He stopped mid-step. His gaze flicked and found you.

Those hard blue eyes sliced clean through the room. His whole body stilled.

“What’s she doing here, Pietro?!” His voice cracked across the air like a whip.

You felt your eyes go wide at the look on his face. He took a step like he might come toward you, furious, not in control and Yelena moved first, her body sliding into place with trained efficiency.

“She’s going. She’s goin' OK?” the blonde snapped, arm extended to hold him back, her free hand waving toward the exit. “We’ve got this. You can go."

“GET HER OUT OF HERE.” The roar from him was enough to hit something old in your bones. Something instinctual. Something primal.

Pietro yanked at your arm. Your legs didn’t move, frozen in place, your brain white-noised out. A deer in headlights. Just staring.

Pietro pulled again, harder this time, and your body obeyed, barely. You turned, stumbled a step before catching yourself.

“Off we go, Songbird,” Pietro murmured, trying to keep it light, but his grip didn’t loosen.

You were being physically moved again. Herded. Steered away like someone’s inconvenient mistake, like an item left out in the wrong scene. There was no aggression in Pietro’s grip, but there was firmness. Intention. You didn’t have a say- not really.

You twisted once, catching a final glimpse over your shoulder, Sam’s jaw tight. Steve looked like something just short of detonation. And Bucky? Just glaring. Eyes like ice.

The hallway lights felt too bright, the echo of your footsteps too loud. Every inch you moved further from the main floor only deepened the wrongness gnawing at your chest.

“What’s going on?” you asked, voice low and sharp.

“It’s business,” Pietro said without looking at you. “Not your kind of business.”

You were so tired of that phrase. Tired of being in the theatre but never in the script. Always made to perform, never told the story. “It’s not safe,” he muttered. “Don’t ask questions today.”

“They looked like-”

“It’s between families. Dat’s all you need to know.”

His tone made it clear you wouldn’t get more.

And somehow, hearing that didn’t make you feel safer, it only made you more certain that whatever this was, you were closer to the center than anyone wanted to admit.

He pushed open the staff door. The sunlight outside hit you like a slap. Too bright. Too loud. Tires screeched somewhere just up the block as someone pulling away hard. Whatever was going on was happening away from here.

Pietro slowed as he walked you around the back of the building to where there was small lot for parking. He didn’t speak. Just unlocked his car but paused putting his hand on the roof.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“I never am, am I?”

He didn’t answer. Then, softer:

“Let’s just get you home… OK? Can you just let me take you home now?”

“Sure.”

It wasn’t his fault. Not really. He was just trying to help in the only way he knew how. Maybe they were all just… stuck. You most of all.

You were holding the door open, about to step in when steps came back from the alley you'd just left.

Wanda stopped breathing a little hard, she'd clearly sprinted to get there.

“Yelena said." She paused to catch her breath. "To just take her to the dressing room.”

Pietro straightened, glancing from you to Wanda, clearly torn. You just held the door open, unsure if you were waiting to be told to run or retreat.

“Barnes wants her out of here.”

“Like he was thinking that hard,” Wanda scoffed under her breath, throwing a look over her shoulder like she half-expected Bucky to come storming out after her. “Yelena wants to keep her here. Or do you want to go argue with her?"

Pietro sighed, muttering something too low to catch. He rounded the car, hand dragging down his face before he gently closed your door for you.

“Come on, Songbird. Best not to upset anymore people today, shall we?”

You were back in your dressing room. Not locked in. But it might as well have been.

Pietro had told you to stay put and shut the door. Wanda had been nice enough to bring you your bag, her expression unreadable as she handed it over, but other than that... nothing. No update. No check-in. No hint as to what was going on. It was like the building had swallowed you.

You sat. Waited. No one came.

Time passed unevenly. You checked your phone. Part of you wanted to see if there was anything on the news, something to explain what was going on. But there wasn't anything. Not even social media had an answer. But you weren't really good with that.. Eventually you got up sticking your head out, checked the hallway. Still empty. Sat back down. Poured yourself a glass of water. Didn’t drink it.

No music drifted in from the bar. No staff clatter. No muffled laughter from the lounge. Just the low hum of a world rearranging itself on the other side of the walls. You pressed your fingers against your knees, grounding yourself in small ways. Stillness felt like a threat now.

Whatever had happened upstairs, it had been more than you'd even prepared yourself for when you'd decided to come in. You had expected tension. Maybe awkward stares. Not... this.

What the hell makes someone look like that?

That had been fear. Fury. War.

And it hadn’t passed. That kind of expression didn’t come and go like weather. It lingered. Rooted.

Something had happened. And whatever it was, it didn’t stay upstairs. You could feel it pushing at the edges of the room.

The silence wasn’t peace. It was containment.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Pietro knocked first with a particular rhythm, one you were starting to recognize. One tap, followed by two in quick succession. Familiar. Intentional. Like he was trying to be polite, even when there was nothing polite about the way the day had gone so far.

"Did you want anyt'ing to eat?"

You looked up. His jacket was already on. The place was warm, and you'd never seen Pietro wear a jacket indoors, he’d was always in his button-up, sleeves rolled, always one lean away from cracking a joke. But this version of him looked different. Less relaxed. Heavier in the shoulders. His posture straighter, more braced. Like he was waiting to be called back into something.

“Going somewhere?”

“No.”

But he didn’t move to leave either.

He stepped inside instead, crossing the threshold with an almost apologetic glance. He didn’t sit, didn’t say anything more. Just leaned against the edge of the dresser, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. Like he was keeping watch. Or maybe like he didn’t know how to be anywhere else. Like staying still was the only thing he could do without making it worse.

“You’re not just a piano player, are you?”

His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk. “Not all the time, Songbird.”

Course he wasn't.

No one here seemed to really be who they were. Or what you'd thought they were. It felt like everyone had a double life around here and maybe you'd wandered straight into your own without realizing.

You both sat in silence, the absence of Pietro's normal background humming made the room feel painful. The tension seemed to hang in the corners like smoke, thin but choking. Having them both in the room made the space feel smaller, like their stillness had a gravity of its own. It was almost a relief when Yelena joined you a few minutes later, a bottle of vodka and two glasses in hand. She set both down on the coffee table, then dragged the chair over from the dressing room vanity and sat down across from you with a sigh that said she wasn’t here to posture.

"I know it’s not your usual whiskey, but I figured, you weren’t goin' to complain."

She poured without asking. You didn’t refuse as you picked up the glass, watching the chilled liquid roll around in it. Yelena took a sip from her own. For a while, no one said anything.

"Quiet der afternoon," she said finally, her voice dry, like she’d tasted the silence and found it lacking. "It’s normally not this... interesting around here all the time. When I came in today I thought our biggest issue was going to be that we seem to be getting low on lemons.."

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. She didn’t need you to.

The blonde leaned back in the chair, legs stretched slightly forward, rolling the base of her glass in one hand. "Most people would’ve cried by now. Or yelled. Or made a scene. You? You just went quiet. That’s... rarer than you think."

“Not really in a crying mood.”

Yelena snorted. "Yeah. I figured. Still- credit where it's due. You're a lot calmer dan some of der guys who’ve worked ‘ere."

You didn’t respond to that. You weren’t sure whether to feel proud or concerned.

Then a beat passed. A longer one. She sighed, resting her glass on her knee.

"Barnes is a businessman," she said finally. "But not the kind you find in Midtown."

“I had worked that out.” You rubbed your temple and went to drink but stopped lowering the glass again.

“And here’s where he likes to do his business, his little hub,” she added. “Which means... the longer you’re here, the more you’re going to see. Whether you mean to or not. That’s how it works around here. It’s not about permission- it’s proximity. You hang around long enough, even by accident, and suddenly you’ll seen too much. That’s just how it is.”

You let out another sigh and lifted your head up to look at both of them, wanting one question answered at least.

“Does Kara know?”

Yelena smirked, setting her glass down with a small clink.

Pietro just shook his head, mouth twisting slightly. “Kara isn’t the most observant. More sparkle than smarts.”

At least now you knew your friend hadn’t fed you to wolves on purpose. That counted for something. That counted for more than you expected it would.

“You, however, seem to ‘ave a bit of common sense.” Yelena pointed out, her eyes keener now, holding you in place.

“Teacher. Gotta have eyes in the back of your head.” You felt your self smile though it was a bitter one. God, if only you didn’t notice things. Maybe then this would be different.

“At least you’ve got an idea what kind of place this is now.” Her voice wasn’t warning. It wasn’t even apologetic. It was matter-of-fact. Like it was a good thing. Like it meant they didn’t have to lie anymore.

Why did she sound so okay with that? Shouldn’t they want you not to know?

“And today was-?”

Yelena looked over at Pietro, then back at you.

“Not something you should ask about,” she said, repeating Pietro’s words from earlier. “Just because you ‘know’”-she even lifted her fingers for air quotes- “doesn’t mean you get told.”

She picked up her glass again and took a sip, as if that ended the matter.

That was always the rule here. They let you see just enough to keep you scared and never enough to make sense of it.

Yelena stood, draining her glass.

“You’re a singer. Sing. Try not to pay too much attention. And maybe, one day, this’ll be a funny story you tell your grandkids about the time you worked for a mobster.”

You couldn’t imagine a version of this where you laughed about it.

You could barely imagine a version where you survived it.

She left. Pietro lingered.

“I’d offer you a smoke, but...”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t move for a moment, then finally shifted his weight against the dresser, arms folding across his chest. Some of the tightness had gone out of his frame, like he’d been holding his breath since before Yelena walked in. He glanced toward the door, then back at you, softer than before.

“Kara’ll be back soon enough.”

He sounded more certain now, like saying it helped him believe it. You weren’t sure if that was meant to reassure you or himself.

You watched him, studying the way his shoulders had dropped, the way his fingers finally stopped twitching. How had he expected that conversation to go? Had he braced for screaming, for tears? For you to fall apart or throw something? Maybe you surprised him by not doing any of that. Maybe you surprised yourself.

You didn’t tell him about the lunch. About the way Barnes had texted you like it was already decided. Like your time, your will, belonged to him now. You weren’t ready to unpack what that meant, not out loud, not to Pietro.

You didn't tell him about the lunch date Bucky Barnes had forced you to agree too. Didn't say that even if Kara came back you had a feeling that it would still mean you be tethered to here in someway, to Barnes. Maybe after this, Bucky would leave you alone. Maybe whatever happened today would distract him, redirect him. You weren’t sure if that was wishful thinking or a warning.

“Yeah…”

Pietro gave a small nod, pushed off the dresser, and left without another word.

You sat back in the silence considering the glass in your hand. You downed your vodka and poured more.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a fog. You drank more than you should have—not enough to feel drunk, but enough to soften the edges. Just enough to take the sting off, to let your thoughts blur around the corners like breath on glass. You didn’t want to get up on stage completely clear-headed, not tonight. God knows you didn’t need to be that out of it either. You just wanted to dull it all, make the day feel less like it actually happened.

Maybe then everything from the shouting upstairs to Yelena's carefully vague warnings would feel like a dream. Like something you imagined, or misinterpreted. Maybe it would slide off you easier that way.

It must have been close to opening when you started to hear noise in the halls. Footsteps. Distant voices. The quiet cracked open like a shell, replaced with the low hum of preparation. The rest of the staff arriving.

The Armory stopped feeling like a fortress. But that didn’t make you feel any safer.

You switched to water. Needing to hydrate, more for your vocal cords when anything else.

Did your makeup. Took your time blending the edges, blotting your lipstick twice instead of once. You reached for the old dress first, the one you'd planned to wear. The safe choice. But your fingers drifted. Slid along the navy fabric instead. His choice. You weren’t sure why you picked it. Maybe it was some act of united front? Maybe it was some twisted attempt to make him feel better?

You didn’t want to think about it as you stepped into the fabric and zipped yourself back in. Not tonight.

You hovered in that murky in-between, where your nerves had dulled just enough for the stage to feel like a safer place than the silence you'd been sitting in.

Pietro was still in his jacket at the piano when you went to stand in the wings. Though he'd rolled the cuffs up again, a small return to normal. Some anchor. You gave him a nod, one he returned with a flicker of something that might’ve been relief.

So you sang.

The crowd didn’t notice anything wrong. But you did.

You glanced toward the usual table- his table- out of habit more than expectation. But it wasn’t empty.

Bucky wasn’t there.

Two couples sat there instead. One of the girls threw her head back in a laugh at something the guy beside her had said, blonde curls bouncing as she lifted her drink. The others smiled, clinking glasses, caught in some happy, oblivious moment that didn’t belong to you. you were just the entertainment, adding to atmosphere.

The staff weaved between tables tight-jawed, polite. Overly careful. Even their smiles looked rehearsed. Wanda caught your eye and offered a sifter smile, like she was trying to sell normalcy and wasn’t quite convinced of it herself.

Whatever had happened that morning. It had rippled. Still was.

You sat in your dressing room afterward. The performance was behind you, your voice already fading into the wood and velvet of the stage like it always did. Normally, you just went home after you were done. You got changed, you didn't even say goodbye most of the time, after all the band stayed on after you were done. But tonight, you stayed.

No one had told you could go.

But no one said you couldn’t. Leaving just didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Not yet. Not when everything still felt like it was balancing on a thread.

You were stuck in limbo. Sitting there, hands folded in your lap, trying not to fidget, trying not to pace. Trying not to let your thoughts loop back on the same jagged edges. You told yourself you’d wait a few more minutes. Just long enough to be sure. But then a few minutes turned into ten. Then fifteen.

No one came to get you. No one told you anything.

Eventually, you pushed to your feet, every movement stiff like your body had finally realized how long it had been bracing. If anyone had made the decision to keep you here, it had been Yelena. She was the one who told Pietro to bring you back.

So if something had changed, she’d know.

Pietro had been right, you didn’t want to upset anyone else today. Not when you didn’t really know what was going on. Not when you were still technically here, and not sure what that meant anymore.

You grabbed your bag. You went to find her.

The back-of-house corridors felt tighter at night, like you’d stepped into some maze of worn carpet and fluorescent flicker. The walls pressed in, the hallways twisting like a rabbit warren- enclosed, tangled, full of corners you’d never paid attention to until now. Your heels clicked too loud in the quiet, but you didn’t slow down.

You reached the side door and stepped out, blinking under the warm glow spilling from the overhead lights. The Armory’s main floor was quieter than you expected, it must have been later than you thought. A few tables still hosted lingering guests, their conversations low and lazy. Some stood at the bar, half-empty glasses in hand, coats slung over stools.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, suddenly aware of how exposed you felt in the navy dress. It had never felt like yours.

Slipping into the crowd, you kept to the edges, trying not to draw attention. Just part of the background. Just passing through.

Yelena stood at the far end of the bar, talking to an older man you didn’t recognize- balding, with an untamed beard and easy smile. They were both leaning in slightly, voices hushed. Maybe not that tired, just someone who was already done for the night and wanted to go home. You’d seen that look on your own face too many times. A kind of end-of-shift exhaustion, the kind that didn’t come from one bad day but from too many of them stacking up back-to-back. Yelena looked like she was coasting on what little remained in the tank.

You hovered near the edge of the bar, hesitant to interrupt. Not quite ready to walk behind it like you belonged there. Your nerves buzzed beneath your skin, mirroring the tired edge on Yelena’s face.

The older man noticed you first. He pulled back slightly, head tipping in your direction in a way that made Yelena turn.

Her eyes found yours. And something in her expression shifted.

You weren’t sure what it meant yet. But it wasn’t surprise.

Yelena waved you over and patted the older man’s arm, and that’s when you noticed the tattoo on his hand- something old and Soviet, faded but still visible across his knuckles.

You opted to go around the front of the bar, cutting through the low buzz of conversation, though you hesitated when the man didn’t move. He didn’t make space. Just watched you, calm and unreadable.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just…” You trailed off. Wanted to know if I could leave. But you didn’t say the words out loud.

Yelena gave you a warmer smile than you were expecting, given the tone of the day. Her voice, when it came, was soft, almost amused.

“Course.” The accent stretched it into something like a purr. “Dis is Alexei. II called him to drive you home.”

You must have looked a little unnerved by the news, because the man next to her straightened up, not in offense, just acknowledgment. Like he understood exactly what you were thinking before you said it. His expression didn’t shift much, but there was something steady in the way he looked at you, something that made it clear he’d done this before. Driven people who didn’t want to be seen. Waited for them to make peace with being handled.

Alexei reached out and took your bag from your hands before you could say anything.

"Let me," he said simply. His voice was gravelly, but not unkind.

You noticed the flash of metal in his teeth when he smiled faintly, the way his fingers closed around the handle with quiet confidence. The bag didn’t even seem to weigh anything to him.

“Papa, she can carry her own bag,” Yelena chided from behind the bar, but there was no real bite to it.

Your head jerked slightly at the word- papa. You hadn’t expected that. And maybe you should’ve. Maybe it explained something about the way he’d moved, the way she hadn’t had to say much to get him here.

Alexei didn’t blink. He just moved like this was routine. Like escorting people out of complicated situations was something he'd done too many times to count.

Alexei let out a loud sigh, the kind that said he'd been standing too long and was too old for drama at this hour. “Okay,” he muttered, with a little theatricality. “Let’s get you home before Barnes gets cross about you being up past your bedtime.”

“Oh, makes sense.”

You stood, smoothing your coat as Alexei gave Yelena a small kiss on the cheek. She didn’t look thrilled about it, but she didn’t pull away either. The moment might’ve felt sweet if things were different. If tonight hadn’t been what it was.

Yelena swatted him lightly and gave you a look. “Sleep. Have a bath. Just… try, ok?” Like she already knew you'd get caught in your own head once you were alone.

Alexei made a quiet sound and adjusted the strap on your bag. “Come on. Best we get out of here before Barnes sees you’re still here.”

“Right…” you muttered.

You stayed quiet as Alexei walked just behind you back through the corridors, though he stepped around you to open the door. He walked through first, holding it open behind him, blocking the alley that led up toward the street as you followed the same path you had with Pietro earlier toward the back car space.

The car he led you to was a black SUV. Solid, quiet, and unassuming in the way only something deliberately chosen for discretion could be. It looked like the kind of vehicle you’d see idling on government curbs, or parked at safe houses. Clean, but not shiny. Functional. When he unlocked it, the soft beep barely echoed off the alley walls. The passenger side door creaked as he opened it, gesturing for you to get in.

You slid into the back seat without protest, the leather cool against your legs. Alexei shut the door behind you, walked around the front, and folded into the driver’s seat like he’d been doing it for thirty years.

The engine rolled to life. The car idled as he checked the mirrors, fingers tapping once on the steering wheel before falling still. The low hum of the motor filled the quiet like white noise.

“Comfortable?” he asked casually, not looking back. His voice was even, unaffected, like this was any other ride.

You didn’t answer. Just sat there, hands in your lap, eyes fixed out the window. The leather seat felt cold against your legs. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten.

He gave a low hum. “So. You sing, yeah?”

You blinked at the back of his head. “Yeah.”

“I used to sing too,” he said, completely deadpan. “In the shower. Great concerts.”

You let out a sound- part huff, part breath- and realized it was the closest thing to a laugh you’d made in hours. Alexei didn’t look back, but his eyes crinkled slightly in the mirror. Like he’d scored something.

The SUV rolled out of the alley. Streetlights passed overhead, casting gold and shadow across the dash. The city moved around you in soft blurs, traffic, lights, the after-hours hush of a place still pretending to be awake.

There was a stretch of quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just still.

Eventually, you asked, “Do you drive people around for Barnes often?”

“Sometimes,” Alexei said. “He likes using people he knows and I have known him long time. Yelena thought you might prefer someone… not as connected as some of the others.”

You turned your head slightly. “Connected?”

“I mean, someone not so active, in everything. I'm retired now,” he said, voice low and matter-of-fact. “Mostly I drive. Meet interesting people. I make people feel safe.”

He glanced at you through the mirror. A pause.

“You feel safe right now?”

“…I don’t know what I feel right now.”

Alexei nodded once. The SUV rolled to a slow stop at a red light.

You stared out the window, the weight of the day pressing harder now that the car had stilled. The silence was thicker at red lights. Less to distract you. No forward motion to pretend with.

Outside, a neon sign flickered. A couple crossed the street in front of you, laughing about something, their voices muffled by the glass. For a second you imagined switching places with her. Someone who got to laugh like that. Someone who got to choose where she was going tonight.

Your fingers flexed in your lap.

It was strange how normal everything looked from in here. Like nothing outside had cracked or shifted. You caught a faint glimpse of yourself in the window, drawn, tired, blurred in the faint light. Someone who looked like she was on her way home. If only it felt like that.

Alexei spoke again, voice soft, almost fatherly.

“Been a long day, from what I’ve been told. Just sit back. Alexei will get you home.”

"....yeah... a long week."

You’d thought the phone call with Kara was going to be the low point. Her voice chirping down the line while Bucky smiled in the background. But that felt like days ago now. You just wanted to go home, lock your door, and pretend none of this was real. Sleep it all away.

You checked your phone.

Nothing.

You didn’t know how to feel about that. Not relief. Not dread. Just that sinking, slow weight again, limbo. Always limbo. Stuck between moments until Bucky decided to let you go.

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